Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(20)

Servants of my father have been punished for less.

I go immediately to the comfort of the bright yellow flames and stand as close to their warmth as I dare. My hands are trembling, my very bones shivering, and every fiber of my being is screaming for me to flee.

I think of the rush of Mathurin’s soul as it left his body. I want—crave—that release for myself with a longing so deep, and sharp, it cuts like a blade. I remember standing atop the battlements and feeling a heady sense of freedom as the wind promised to carry me far, far away. Is that what souls feel when they are released from their earthly bodies?

Tephanie comes in just then, her big awkward feet shuffling along the floor. She curtsies hurriedly, then rushes to my side. “My lady! I am so sorry to have left you alone. I thought you were . . .” She waves her hand inelegantly.

I am too weary and heartsick to even pretend to snap at her. “See that it does not happen again,” I say tiredly.

Her brow creases with worry. “Yes, my lady,” she says. “Are you ill?”

“No, just tired.”

“But you are shivering! Here, let me fetch you something hot to drink.”

I allow her to fuss over me, and once she has handed me a goblet, she goes to turn down the coverlet on the bed and warm the sheets.

As she shuffles quietly about the room, I stand near the fireplace and gulp my wine, waiting for the trembling to pass. I wish, desperately, to take a bath, but it is far too late and would call too much attention to myself. Even so, between Mathurin’s blood and Julian’s kiss, I feel tainted beyond bearing.

“My lady?”

When I look up, Tephanie is holding out my chamber robe. “Shall I help you undress?”

“If you please.”

Her hands are gentle as she helps me out of my clothes. Unlike Jamette, she knows how to keep silent, and I find the quiet of her company soothing. As she puts away my gown, I take the cup of wine over to my small jeweled casket and open it. After setting the goblet down, I remove a small crystal vial from the box. It is a sleeping draft Sister Serafina gave me as a parting gift when I left the convent. She did not say so, but I could see she was unhappy with the abbess for sending me out so soon and knew I would need help if I were to sleep at all.

For a brief moment, I consider dumping the entire contents into my wine. If I drink all of it, I will never wake up. The thought of going to sleep and never having to deal with d’Albret or the abbess or Julian again is as seductive as a siren’s song.

But what if Death rejects me once more? Then I will be forced to lie, weak and vulnerable, at the mercy of others while I recover. A most terrifying thought.

Besides, what if the knight truly is alive—what will become of him if I am dead? I slip two drops into my wine, return the vial to the box, and lock it.

Even more important, if I am dead, who will kill d’Albret? For he must die, marque or no.

Tephanie has finished warming the bed and comes to unpin my hair. She begins combing it out with a surprisingly light touch, given how clumsy and awkward she is. I close my eyes and let the gentle strokes calm some of the fear from me. Her ministrations remind me of how Ismae and Annith and I used to take turns combing and dressing one another’s hair at the convent. Sweet Mortain, how I miss them.

Abruptly, I turn around. “You will sleep in here tonight,” I tell her.

She stops what she is doing and looks at me in surprise. “My lady?”

I cannot tell her that I need her, that I wish her company, so instead I say, “I am not feeling well and may require someone to attend me during the night.”

She looks stunned, but pleased. The ninny thinks this is some great honor, not the desperate act of a coward, and I do not disabuse her of that notion.





That night, when Julian comes scratching at my door, Tephanie gets up to see who it is. I do not hear what she says, as my head is groggy from Sister Serafina’s potion, but her presence is enough to drive him away. She returns to the bed and crawls back under the covers. “Your brother wished to see how you were doing. He said you had a headache at dinner and he wanted to be sure it was gone.”

“It is,” I say, and scoot over so she may have the warmest spot. She deserves that much, at least, for chasing off the monsters.





Chapter Eight


WHEN I COME AWAKE IN the morning, my first thought is of the knight the abbess wishes me to free. His anguished bellow of defeat as he was struck down haunted my dreams.

Even at the convent, we had heard of the mighty Beast of Waroch and of how his ability to rally his countrymen—noblemen and peasant alike—to the duke’s cause allowed us to win our past three battles.

As I listen to Tephanie’s gentle snoring, I wonder why the fallen knight has so captured my imagination. Was it because he fought so valiantly against such overwhelming odds? Because of his dedication to his young duchess? Or simply because I looked into his eyes just before he died?

For he is dead. I saw him struck down with my own . . . ah, but Julian arrived just then. I never saw the knight’s lifeless body. And it is said that men in the throes of battle lust can suffer much damage, yet live.

When I went to bed last night, I vowed to ignore the abbess’s message. But now, now all I can think of is that noble knight rotting—or worse—in d’Albret’s dungeon.